


Inseparable

by Hedgiehairdresser



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Growing Up, Kid Fic, M/M, Primary School
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedgiehairdresser/pseuds/Hedgiehairdresser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where John and Sherlock grow up through school together. Based heavily on the events of my best friend through our years since Primary school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this, it starts at kindergarten and goes until graduation, possibly further. Enjoy.  
> In this story, Sherlock and John are the same age, there's no two year age gap. (Watson is two years older than Holmes in canon.)  
> Lovingly dedicated to my best friend of 14 years, James.  
> We met in kindergarten, loathed each other until we bonded over a substitute late in our Primary years.  
> Your family took me in when I had no where else to go, you don't comfort me when I'm sad but instead show me pictures of funny cats. We went to Europe together, we planned the layout for our castle, and even went to prom.  
> Enjoy everyone!

"Hello boys and girls, welcome to school! We're going to have lots of fun together, aren't we?"  
The teacher was answered with a chorus of silence from the twenty five year old kids, all sitting cross-legged in a semi circle around the small plastic blue chair the teacher was eagerly perched on. Most of the children were too busy picking fluff from the carpet, or crossing the straps of their Velcro shoes, and some were even stretched right out on the navy blue carpet, bellies exposed and limbs sprawled out.

"I have to pee." Came the small voice from the left side of the room. It came from a boy with unruly black curls and a face that looked malnourished. He didn't wear velcro, but instead lace-ups with thin elastic laces for easy tying. Regardless, the fact that he had laces in his shoes made him far more revered than any of the other children, decked out in their Sunday best for the first day of school. Despite all that, he was sitting alone, sure they were in a semi-circle, but there was a noticeable gap between him and the children on either side of him.

"Can you wait until recess?" The teacher, , said, she was middle aged, her hair peppered with white streaks which confirmed her general age area.  
"Well I could, but by that time, I'd pee on the floor." He said, not in a sarcastic tone, but in a matter-of-fact statement. His voice wasn't whiny and higher pitched like most of the other kids that age, but instead sounded like a child who had been through the whole rigmarole of Primary school before.

John Watson, age five, was sitting at the end of the semi-circle, he had been zoned out pretty much all day, thinking about his kitten at home, his Mum, and his sister Harriet, who was somewhere else in the school. He thought the curly haired kid was a snob, pretending to be smart to be the teacher's favourite. It irritated him until he got distracted by his Velcro shoes again.

* * *

John Watson had been in Kindergarten for less than a month, and he sat alone at the round blue tables set up in the classroom. He played with the blocks by himself, and at recess, he sat on the top of the monkey bars overlooking the rest of the playground; alone.  
He didn't make friends too easily, since his mother was very over protective about having other children over at the house or allowing John to be at other people's house where she couldn't watch over him.  
Pulling his knee's to his chest, he felt miserable. None of the other children wanted to play with him, or do crafts with him, and he figured he was far too shy for his own good. Well that was all going to change, he was going to force someone to be his friend if it hurt him.

At the other end of the playground, sitting on a teeter totter without a partner; Sherlock Holmes pondered why no one wanted to play with him.  
He wasn't consciously aware of it, but he found every excuse to question the meaning behind the songs the teacher sang, and criticise the spelling and grammar of all the other children. The other kids didn't find it helpful; they found it annoying, but Sherlock didn't know.  
Standing up from the teeter totter, he vowed to find one kid that would be his friend.

* * *

"Can anyone tell me what day of the week it is? _En Français!_ " clapped her hands, as the students sat in their semi circle on the carpet, either not paying attention, or trying to figure out what day of the week it was in English. As per usual, Sherlock was the first one to raise his hand. The teacher had grown to love the eager boy; being the first one she called on, she encouraged his enthusiasm. It only sparked the nickname 'Teacher's Pet' behind his back.

"Yes Sherlock?" She asked, thankful she didn't have to stand there awkwardly in front of the silence of children.  
"Lundi!" He shouted, a smile plastering itself onto his narrow face. John, who was sitting beside him, had grown tired of him being such a show off, so he whispered callously into his palm.  
"Teacher's pet."  
Without missing a beat, Sherlock raised his hand high in the air, swinging it slightly to attract the teacher's attention even more.

"Yes, Sherlock?" looked his way again, hoping he didn't just have to pee or go get something from his backpack.  
"John hit me." He said, rubbing his shoulder, twisting his face in false pain and whining even louder than before.  
"WHAT? No I didn't!" John shrieked defensively, putting his hands in the air in surrender. Sherlock chose that moment to start the crocodile tears.

"He did! When you turned around, he punched me in the arm and it hurts!" That got the attention of everyone in the room; and the attention turned to John. Whispers and glares struck hard, leaving the blonde confused and in complete shock. He didn't know what to say, but he was innocent!  
"I didn't! I really didn't touch him!" John panicked, he was looking at everyone, his face going a dark red from embarrassment and anger. Sherlock only whined louder.

"John, I don't know what to say. Go to the office until I come get you at the end of the day. We're going to have a nice little chat. Sherlock, you go too, get an icepack if you need one and come straight back." shook her head, shooing the boys out of the room.  
"And John, I'm very disappointed in you." Was all she said, making John feel even worse, since he knew he didn't do anything. If she even suspected he was innocent; he couldn't tell, all he heard was shame and the backstabbing pain of pseudo betrayal.

* * *

"I didn't hit you, Sherlock, and you know it. You lied to the teacher." John huffed, walking down the small corridor beside the trouble maker. Sherlock shrugged, instantly ceasing his false pain and grinning like a mad man, his shoulders softly vibrating from the stifled giggles that threatened to escape his mouth.  
"You called me names and gave me a reason to be sent out." Sherlock raised his hand to his forehead, sweeping away his black curly bangs that through his mock tantrum had decided to stick to his cheeks. John felt angry with him, he wanted to punch him for real now. For some reason, he didn't. Whether it was the moral conflict, or that he knew he'd get in even more trouble, John kept his hands to himself.

"What can I do you kids for?" The secretary was a very friendly woman who treated the kids nicely without treating them like the children they really were. Her motto had always been to treat kids like adults and they would ACT older. To some extent it worked, but even if ONE kid acted older due to being treated better; it was worth it.

"I'm here to get an ice pack, HE'S here because he's in trouble." Sherlock wandered up to the front desk, he couldn't even see over it; it was so big. Throwing his hands up onto the counter, he lifted himself up so he could peer over the desktop at the woman.  
"Can I get an ice pack?" He asked, a little firmer this time. John rolled his eyes and sat in the chair, sticking his tongue out in a juvenile manner behind Sherlock's back.  
"I'm going to tell the teacher you did that, John." Sherlock smiled before leaving the office, leaving John sitting in the chair by himself to wait what seemed like eternity for the teacher to come in to chastise him.

* * *

This little dance of theirs went on for months, Sherlock would smack John in the shoulder and start crying so Mrs. Krause would get the blonde boy sent to the office to wait. His parents had been called many times to have discussions with the teacher, but nothing seemed to work. John kept claiming to be innocent, and his parents, knowing how he acted at home and having dealt with similar things between him and Harriet; knew at least part of what he was saying was true.

The teacher, however, wasn't quite as certain as they were. To her, Sherlock was a model student. Intellectually ahead of all the other kids, he was a smart, brilliant boy. The only thing holding him back was his lack of social progress between him and his classmates. For a group of five year old kids, they were very cliquish and exclusive. They rarely ever included the brilliant young kid in group projects or even in partnerships. To her, John just went further in his ostracising of Sherlock by actually being a bully, which was frowned upon and on more than one occasion had earned him severe discipline by the Principal himself.

One day near the end of the school year, John found himself sitting in what was dubbed 'his corner' playing with the wooden blocks all by himself. Sherlock was observing him from above the pages of a large book which he was pretending to read on the floor a few metres away from John, watching contently until a much larger kid, probably of North American Aboriginal decent; shoved John forward into the tower he was constructing, making some of the blocks drive painfully into his shoulder.

"Move!" The other kid, whom Sherlock vaguely remembered him being called 'Niko' at some point; hadn't even waited for John to regain his composure after the initial shove, kicking some of the blocks away, others towards him. The sudden violence stunned Sherlock, what was even more appalling was that the teacher seemed absent in the classroom, not able to see what was going on.

Sherlock decided at that time to take initiative. John started to cry, after being kicked with the solid wood blocks several times, he scrunched up into a ball defensively; like a hedgehog protects itself from a predator. Muffled sobs of 'stop' being drowned out by the other kid's snorts of sadistic laughter.  
"He said STOP!" Sherlock projected himself from the chair as he practically flew towards the child, pinning him to the floor, landing true punches to his arms and upper body, avoiding the head where the bruises would have been more visible to the public. After hearing the frightened cries of all the other children, Sherlock stopped. Everyone else had congregated over to the other side of the classroom, shrieking at the tops of their lungs.

The strangled cries of the boy pinned beneath him sinking into Sherlock's head, as he got up, dusting off the knee's of his jeans, turning around to extend a hand to John.  
"Are you okay?" He asked with far more maturity than a child his age. John moved his fingers away from his eyes, looking up at the person who had bullied him for the past eight and a half months. He didn't take Sherlock's hand, but he got up, brushing himself off and beginning to pick up the blocks himself to put them away. He whispered a small 'thank you' to Sherlock, who stood there looking at the quivering child laying on the floor.

"Don't touch him again, got that?" Sherlock hissed, dropping to help John with the blocks.

* * *

"Sherlock, what do you have to say to Niko?" The Principal asked. The small office was crowded with , Sherlock, John, their parents, Niko and his parents. John and Sherlock being the centre of attention. They had already affirmed by other student witnesses that John was the one who was owed an apology, although Niko refused to give one until his was received.  
"I'm not sorry. He kicked John without reason. I was standing up to a bully." Sherlock shrugged. His parents didn't know whether to beam or publicly chastise their son. They chose the former, since that was one of the key rules to life in their opinion. Stand up for what you believe in. Although punching the daylights out of a child wasn't the ethical way, it was certainly a valid reason. Unfortunately, the teachers nor Niko's parents did not condone that way of thinking.

"What do you propose we do about that? You know that that's not a good way to behave, right?" The Principal saw the glares from Sherlock's parents, they kept their mouth's shut, but they certainly weren't going to let Sherlock apologise for not causing any permanent damage.  
"I know not to hit people for no reason, but I had a reason, a GOOD reason, and I wasn't going to be a witness since John was getting hurt." Sherlock stayed calm, sitting beside John in the overly large chair. John had a couple of small bruises on his shins and a nick on his hand, but overall he came away unscathed. Niko, however, had several large black and blue marks on his arms and a small scrap on his collarbone when Sherlock's fist managed to miss.

"It still didn't warrant physical violence, Sherlock. Is there any way that you could have used your words? How do we prevent this from happening again?" The teacher interjected, not wanting to be here any longer, they had all been standing here for the better have of an hour, not gaining any progress with the stubborn kids.  
"I yelled at him to stop, so did John. He didn't listen. If he wasn't a bully, I wouldn't have hit him. It won't happen again if people don't hurt John for no reason ever again. They stop being mean to him, and I won't defend him." Sherlock sat up straighter, his mother reaching over to give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, beaming proudly.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, the Principal shook his head, looking at Niko sternly.  
"Please apologise to John for being rude. After that, we can all go home."  
With that, Sherlock turned to John, grinning like a madman. John smiled back. After being treated horribly by Sherlock all year, the tables had suddenly turned upon themselves in some sort of new revelation.

"Sorry John." Niko muttered, and all the parents let out a sigh of relief, itching to go home.  
"Thank you." John whispered to Sherlock, before jumping off the chair to leave. He had mixed feelings for the boy, were they still enemies, or had he finally found a friend?

* * *

After the weekend, John and Sherlock were sitting on the carpet together in their small classroom, talking about the pets they had, and other mundane things. All the while, John kept thinking about how he had finally found the friend he waiting for on top of the monkey bars for all these months. He was going to ask Sherlock to birthday parties, sleep overs, and he thought about all the cool things he was going to show Sherlock if he was allowed over. Sherlock had been telling John about a dead mouse he found in his backyard, and if John could come over one day, he's show it to him.  
John beamed with joy at his new friend, and Sherlock smiled right back.

By the end of the day, John was sitting in that all too familiar chair in the office, and Sherlock was getting another addition to his ice pack collection.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What adventures will year 2 hold for the two devious students?

There were two Grade 1 classes in the school of 150 students, which meant that the kids learned the hard way that you were forced to either make new friends or stay alone in school if you didn't get into the same class as your friends. Class lists were mailed out to each family at the end of summer, as each teacher had different specifications for what general supplies were, or were not needed.  
Luckily enough for John and Sherlock, they had the fortune, and teacher's misfortune, of being in the same class.

The first day of school was more of a gong show than an actual class. John had spent the summer up North with his family, so he and Sherlock had not seen each other in two months. Sherlock, needless to say, had nearly gone crazy. His older brother, Mycroft, had bullied him around trying to make him sit down and do studies with him so he was well prepared for school. Since their mother reminded him that if Sherlock sat still for too long their kitchen table would no longer exist; Mycroft had ceased his teachings, but Sherlock grew restless with each passing day. He missed his best friend, and he wasn't old enough by his parents standards to use the computer, nor the phone, and since there were no other children in his neighbourhood, much less any that wanted to hang out with him.

He spent his summer in his room making things out of Lego and doing minor science experiments on the carpet. He learned to do the more dangerous ones against the wall, so when the carpet scorched, he covered up the marks with a pile of clothing, or a conveniently placed book. Whenever his parents asked him to clean, he moved his smaller bookshelves over a few inches or so as to cover up any remaining marks.

September Fourth rolled around and Sherlock had gotten up as the sun was cresting over the hills, casting long shadows across the child's floor. He got dressed rather quickly, the purple long sleeved shirt with the school's emblem on it; over top of a white flannel shirt, and bootleg cut, dark washed jeans with the school name along the side hem. To top off the entire look, he had to wear a pinstriped purple and yellow tie, knee length white socks, and shiny new black slip-on shoes. His mother had laid the outfit out for him the night before, so Sherlock didn't even think about skipping the formal dress code and demanding to wear something from his closet.

First year students in Infant school always got to wear whatever they wanted; there was no dress code, since it was a mutual agreement by the district school board that students were restless enough during their first year of classes; things were too shiny and new to add the extra cost and excitement of clone uniforms to the mix. It was an added relief to aid parents, in the long run.

They had gotten the outfit from the school office late in August when the uniforms went on sale from the school, and he couldn't wait to show John his new outfit; even though John would be wearing one exactly the same. The previous year, they had a wonderful love-hate relationship, regarding around Sherlock constantly pushing John around and he couldn't promise that this year would be any different, but John was different, he actually put up with Sherlock and his odd abuse and it's underlying affections.

He had bounced on the balls of his feet all morning, pestering his mother to hurry up and get him to school, knowing full well that school didn't start for over an hour. Mycroft was lucky, he was already in Year 7; in Senior school, where the hours started earlier and ended later, and the younger child was extremely jealous of his brother. That, and Mycroft was allowed to walk to his school, whereas the Primary school was in the outskirts of Ealing, quite a drive from where they lived down in the Charing Cross district. Sherlock was at the end of his Infant school though, preparing for next year to go to Junior school, which was in Bayswater, which was considerably closer to them, being on the border of Charing Cross. However, he couldn't think about that until he finished this year, and he was bouncing around just to get to school TODAY.

Eventually, at the end of what seemed like days rather than hours; Sherlock was loaded into the family car for the half hour drive it took to get to the local primary school. The drive seemed to take an eternity of endless streets, high buildings and cars. Sherlock had even begun to nod off once or twice when traffic was stalled. His mother found this amusing on an immeasurable scale, having her son be so excited for a day only to fall asleep before it even began.

His mother had hardly enough time to say goodbye to Sherlock when they pulled up to the school, and he jumped out of the car, waving like a madman as he turned around, fleeing up the grand concrete steps of the school to wait for John in their new classroom.

"Good luck, Sherlock...may God grant much patience to his teacher, that poor, unfortunate person." His mother whispered to herself, smiling, as she drove away from the school.

* * *

Sherlock found the classroom he was assigned to without any problem; it was only three doors down the main hallway, a bright neon sign exclaiming: "Welcome to Mrs. Zabel's Class" welcomed him when he reached the door. Taking in a deep breath, Sherlock pondered a moment before turning the large brass doorknob, opening the door slowly, trying to make the least possible noise.

When the door opened all the way, the small curly haired child stepped through, onto plush navy blue carpet that felt soft, even through his hard plastic shoes.  
"Sherlock! Sit with me!" John's familiar, high voice called out from the other side of the class. He was frantically waving his arms and patting the hard metal desk chair beside him. Sherlock scurried over to sit with the blonde kid, excited and anxious to hear about his adventures.  
"John! I missed you! What did you do all summer?" He asked hurriedly, his feet tapping on the carpet, although they were heavy steps they didn't make a sound. John was beaming a full-tooth smile, their teacher was preoccupied at her desk, there were only four other students in the classroom, as the morning bell hadn't rung yet, so not a lot of students were actually going to be at school yet.

"I went to Liverpool to visit my grandfather and my uncle. It wasn't very exciting, there weren't hardly any other kids to play with, and I was stuck with my nasty sister all summer." John pulled a face, sticking his tongue out and giggling.  
"What's so nasty about her?" Sherlock asked, he found Mycroft repulsing, but tended to describe him in more personal terms rather than a generalization of his features.  
"All she talks about are the girls in her class and how her and her friends were planning to hang out over the summer. She's older than I am so mummy and daddy let her do more, but I had to share a room with her and all she did was complain. What did you do?" John asked, now, when one asked his parents how their summer was, they would have used words such as 'gorgeous scenery', 'lovely gardens', or 'splendid time with the folks'. John didn't see any of that. He saw fields and sheep and not a single person to play with.

"I...worked in my room. My brother had some friends over and they talked to me, but Mycroft didn't let them unless he was out of the room. I was really bored without you, John." Sherlock shrugged, his brother's friends found the dark haired children interesting. Whether or not in a good sense he didn't know, but they liked talking to them about science and chemicals and dead birds, so Sherlock didn't mind them either. Mycroft, on the other hand, got jealous whenever his friends spent too much time with his little brother, so he often kept them up in his private room where the younger Holmes brother could not stray.

"Well we're in the same class, that's good, right?" John continued to smile, it was a really lonely summer, he was trying to make up for it by planning do spend every waking moment at school with his best friend.

Although the teasing and taunts were far from over; it was customary to have a full day of time-out before proceeding with such dealings.

* * *

The next few weeks were uneventful; Sherlock managed not to scorch the carpet, and John managed to ignore the majority of what their teacher was telling them, instead he spent his time drawing out pictures of animals, and people. He had the average talent of a six year old, there was nothing remarkable about how he drew; only that it did it far more often than any of his classmates. Sherlock was always astounded at how John could spend seven hours a day in class drawing and yet still hand in everything Mrs. Zabel gave them to complete whether it was match, science, English, French or history; John finished all of it.

Sherlock had kept to ticking John off in simple ways; taking one of his pens and holding it hostage until he found out it was missing, or switching his shoes around so they were on opposite sides. John had figured it was Sherlock, but his mother had given the advice of 'if you ignore him, he'll stop'.

He didn't.

One morning, however, Mrs. Zabel did not show up for class. The students were all in their desks, waiting, not eagerly, yet still waiting. Their teacher showed no signs of turning up.  
"Sherlock, where's the teacher?" John whispered to his friend. Sherlock turned to face him, his dark eyes crinkled as if trying to scrutinize the situation.  
"She was sneezing quite heavily yesterday, it's possible that she's at home sick. But that's not very common, she could be dying, or dead, I don't know. We'll have to see." Sherlock shrugged, he was never one to sugar coat information, but the thought of their teacher being dead made John's jaw drop; he liked Mrs. Zabel , he didn't want her to be dead. He looked surely forlorn after that and didn't speak a word to Sherlock until an unfamiliar figure walked through the open door.

"Hello boys and girls. My name is, Mrs. Hildebrant and I'm going to be your teacher today. Mrs. Zabel is in the hospital getting some blood work done today, but she'll be back after the weekend. What are you guys working on today?" The teacher was elderly, but there was something different. John didn't even look up at her when she had been talking, but Sherlock was trying to figure her out. She looked like his grandmother, but considering he had only seen his grandmother once during her open-casket funeral, he highly doubted it was actually her. He remembered his Mother saying how Sherlock's grandmother had been a mean old lady who didn't care for anything except for soap opera's. Sherlock didn't know what a soap opera is, but he was certain that the bar of soap in his bathroom didn't sing, but he was sure that if it did; he would be care pretty deeply for it too.

No one in the class raised their hand, they were either too scared, too shy, or, like John, had never really paid attention long enough to find out what it is they were actually doing.  
Sherlock was not one of those students. He knew exactly what they were doing; they were currently working on textures in art class, and their times tables up to five. However, he simply didn't feel like doing any of the work, but before the teacher called them out on it, he raised his hand.

"We just finished a unit, so we're doing silent reading until lunch, and then we are doing textures and shapes after lunch until bell. Next week we start a new lesson." All of this was a lie, of course, but John, who had tuned in to hear what Sherlock had to say, felt like giving him an enormous high five right there! He didn't, of course, because the teacher would have found that suspicious. Sherlock have have been only six years old, but he was clever enough to find ways to fool most teachers.

"Oh, well, alright, everyone grab a book from the shelf and sit back down in your seats. I will require you to write a short paragraph about the book you have chosen and that is due by the beginning of lunch." She was none too kindly with her words, she was grateful to have an excuse to now sit behind the desk and oversee the sea of purple sweaters and shirts sitting in their three long rows of heavy, light brown desks.  
Sherlock had packed a book from home in his bag. He was intelligent for his age, but he was still reading in a primary level. His intelligence didn't surpass anyone in his general age category, he just knew how to use it to get what he wanted.

He pulled out the chapter book and started reading, noticing out of the corner of his eye that John had not yet pulled out a book. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, although he was completely silent, so it shouldn't be an issue. Sherlock figured he'd get away with it and he would lie to the teacher if he had to in order to keep the blonde kid from getting in trouble.

"John." Sherlock hissed quietly, kicking John under the chair gently to get his attention.  
"What?" John didn't turn to look at his friend, drawing some sort of bird in flight. It looked like a car drove off a cliff, but such was the art of the ages, at least John was trying.  
"You should get a book and pretend to read, you might get in trouble." Sherlock looked over his shoulder; he and John were as far away from the teacher's desk as possible, and thanks to their head positions, it was impossible to determine if they were actually talking or not, but considering how quiet they managed to be, Mrs. Hildebrant didn't suspect a thing.

"Alright, hold on, I'll go get one." John whispered back, before getting up to walk over to the bookshelf.  
"Where are you going?" Mrs. Hildebrant yelled, pointing a large, long finger in John's direction, putting the blonde child in the spotlight. Heads turned to look at him, who froze when called upon.  
"I'm going to get another book." He muttered, face turning red in embarrassment at being put in the spotlight. Apparently that was not a valid enough excuse for the elderly woman, because she stood up abruptly, walking over to where the boy cowered in his shoes, he sat down quickly, trying to get her to forget that he was ever up.

"What have you been doing all this time?" She half shouted at him, and Sherlock himself was a bit frightened at her demeanour. He glanced at the clock, it had only started less than 10 minutes ago, some of the children were still talking before she noticed John get up.  
"I was thinking about...what...to read..." John stammered, twiddling his hands around, wringing his fingers. Sherlock nearly found himself wanting to get involved, but John looked like he had a handle on things, he was only six, after all.

"No, you were supposed to pick a book along with everyone else, sit back down!" She yelled, and, obediently sat down in his chair, his eyes were wet, he hated being yelled at, it always made him upset. Now he was without a book AND he felt horrible. Sherlock hated the sight of it, and he had a plan to get his revenge.

* * *

"Sherlock, that's not nice." John whispered urgently as Sherlock crept slowly behind the teacher's chair with a big pointy tack in his hand. He motioned for John to be quiet. The moment he set the metal pin on the seat upright, he made a mad dash for the door, hurdling towards the front entrance where the rest of the parents waited for their children.  
During lunch hour, the teacher had stayed in her room, but Sherlock waited until the final bell, when the teacher was mandatory to appear to let the students out to their parents.

This way, the teacher would never be able to get mad at them, AND Sherlock and John had their moment of revenge. It was a win-win situation.  
"That'll teach her to ever yell at you." Sherlock grinned, giving his best friend a high five, before departing into their separate vehicles. They didn't know that Mrs. Hildebrant had no intentions of going back into the room; for she was already in the staff parking lot getting into her own auto mobile.

They felt on top of the world, that is, until Monday morning when Mrs. Zabel came back to the room and sit in her large grey chair.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock invited John over for a sleepover, but when Mycroft's friends come over, what trouble can the pint-sized detective get into?

Year two had arrived, and now accustomed to the new uniforms and desk chairs that were required of the students, the first week of school had gone by without a single incident whatsoever, even from the, by now well known, 'duo of destruction' as they were dubbed by the teachers. Both teachers they had previously had started to take medication for severe headaches and were prone to 'extended sick leave' at the end of the year. Not that neither Sherlock nor John had noticed, they were too busy comparing the length of the zippers they had on their uniforms; Sherlock bragging that his coat had a much longer one than John had, which of course meant for a contest.

"Alright, class, settle down into your seats!" This teacher was young, in her late twenties. She knew how to be a children's babysitter, but problem dissolving was not her strong suit, as it seemed. Sherlock and John sat in the back row, the small groups of three meant they shared their space with a shy Indian boy who never spoke out much in class, nor did he pay any attention to what the other two trouble makers did.

"Today, we're going to be learning cursive, do you guys know what that is?" Mrs. Lodermeier asked, the kids hushed in their desks, several hands went up, including that of John's, who sat higher in his seat, his hand shot straight up in the air, fingers wide.  
"Yes, John?" The teacher called on him for his enthusiasm, thinking he knew the answer.

"It's like saying twat, or calling someone a wanker."

That is how John Watson ended up spending the rest of the day in the Head Master's office.

* * *

"John, what are you doing for Christmas Holidays?" Sherlock asked John on the last day of school before the two week Holiday. They had spent the previous three months in an out of the Head Master office, sometimes for things they did, sometimes for things they said, most of the time because the teacher didn't know what else to do with them. Separating their desks didn't help, because they just yelled louder. Their parents had been called, multiple times, and nothing they did warranted an expulsion.

"Nothing, Mum is working and Dad is away on a business trip so we can't go anywhere. What are you doing?" John shrugged, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He usually loved Christmas, but he hated the long break away from his friend. His parents had been starting to wonder since all John talked about was his taller, curly haired friend. It was 'Sherlock this' or 'Sherlock that' at all mealtimes, everything was about Sherlock. They were grateful John had finally found a friend, but it had consumed his entire interests. He couldn't even watch telly without making a comment about the other boy.

"Well, we get back to school on the tenth of January, right? Well, my birthday is on the sixth, and I've never had a birthday party before. If you want to come over that day we can have our own party." Sherlock asked, his face going red from embarrassment, he had never been able to invite anyone over before, especially since John seemed to be busy every weekend and Holiday with his family. His father was a well paid doctor, so they got to travel around and go on expensive trips, leaving Sherlock alone with no other kids to play with. This would be his very first play date.

"Yeah, I'll ask my mum, can I have your phone number?" John pulled out the book he was assigned, opening the cover to expose the first page. He figured that since it was one of his favourite books, he would open it and remember to call Sherlock, instead of having to remember to find the paper first. Sherlock smiled, grabbing a pen from the desk opposite him, he scrawled the ten digits onto the page in childish scrawling.

"You will call me, right?" Sherlock said timidly, he liked having John as his friend, John nodded confidently. Sherlock knocked him on the arm once, it was an act he had seen Mycroft do to one of his mates at their house, he figured it was a symbol of friendship.  
"Ow, why did you hit me?" John winced, rubbing the spot where Sherlock had hit him. The ebony haired kid apologised profusely, rubbing the spot too, as if it would add extra relief.

"I had seem Mycroft do it to his friends, it means you're one of my best mates." Sherlock hoped he sounded convincing, and John's face seemed to light up when he heard that. He had never even had a friend before Sherlock, now he didn't want to be friends with anyone else.  
"Oh, well...thanks." He beamed, knowing that hitting was wrong, but in reply, he hit Sherlock back on the arm, a large grin on both of their faces.

* * *

"Mum, can I go to Sherlock's house for his birthday?" John toddled off to his mother, who was sitting in a straight backed chair in their common kitchen, reading the Daily News article. She set down the paper, turning towards her youngest son, a large smile on her medically lifted face.  
"When is his birthday, John?" She had been wondering when she would get a chance to meet the infamous 'Sherlock Holmes' that won her son's great affections. They had typically gone away every holiday off, and she had strictly banned play dates and sleepovers on school nights.

"January Sixth. I have his phone number." John lifted up his book, opening the cover, shoving it into his mother's face, waving it around slightly. She took the book from him, looking at the printing in the young hand, barely readable.  
"Let me give his mum a shout, all right? Then we can see about the party." It wasn't even Christmas day yet, school had only gotten out four hours ago, and already John was making plans for the next month. The answer seemed to content him, however, and knowing he wouldn't bring it up again for at least a week, she set the book aside, making a mental jot to call the house number she was given before the New Year.

John toddled off to the other room, Christmas seemed to pass by him now, he was counting down the days for Sherlock's birthday.

* * *

Christmas Day rolled around, and as common in England, there was no snow on the ground, but a crisp, stiff air around them, stirring the leaves, making the grass sparkle with a thin layer of icy film.  
John and Harry had both woken up before the sun had, tramping downstairs in their pyjamas, giggling and making as much noise as possible to wake their parents up for permission to open their presents.

"It's six in the morning, kids, back to bed for an hour." Their mother opened her bedroom door, her sleep drugged voice groggy and sounding exhausted. Harry, being older, turned and marched back up the stairs, her bossy voice accepted by gapped teeth making her sound informative and far older than she actually was.  
"You said not before five. Six comes after five, so we waited and now it's up to you and mum to wake up." She lifted her chin, declaring confidence that showed her unbeatable stubborn attitude.

Shrugging it all off in the sake of Christmas spirit, their mother brambled back into his room to put on her dressing robe, John giving his sister a high five when she came back down to the landing, eagerly waiting the arrival of their mother. It was their first Christmas without their father, since he was gone down to Spain for a business conference, but he promised to call sometime during the day.

Without hesitation, the moment they had opened their presents, John was begging to call Sherlock to tell him all about his new gifts, consisting of a brand new set of hard cover picture encyclopedias, a detailed book of drawing human figures and correct anatomy (Child friendly edition only available through Scholastic), and a cream coloured cable knit jumper to wear out in public in the crisp winter environment.

"You'll have plenty of time to tell him at his party, won't you?" His mother asked, slightly tired of hearing about Sherlock, when John doesn't even take time to relax and enjoy the time with his family without bringing up his best friend. They both had bets going that if they asked John what the Earth revolved around, he would say, without hesitation, 'Sherlock Holmes'.

"Yeah, but I want to talk to him." John had gotten off the floor, flipping through his drawing book, looking at the pictures of pencil drawn fingers and hands, the nail beds and palms, imagining that he could draw that well.  
"Honey, he's probably not even awake yet, come sit back down, help Harry put together that model aeroplane." His mum said, hoping that would distract her son, at the same time she gave her daughter the look that said _'You WILL play with your brother, or none of us will hear the end of his rants about Sherlock'_.

Harry understood, and the two of them spent the entire morning glueing wings and miniature wheels onto a model plane.

* * *

"MUM! DID YOU WRAP THE PRESENT?" John shrieked, running down the spiral staircase in the front foyer to his mother, who sat in the kitchen dressing the present John had picked out for his friend, in tissue paper inside of a fancy birthday themed bag.  
"Yes, John, calm down! Don't worry, are you dressed?" She asked, slightly exasperated. She had been forced to call the Holmes residence to confirm their arrival and find out their address and, to John's delight, arrange the impromptu sleepover. What had started out as an afternoon party turned out to be a weekend long slumber party.

The consolation to Mrs. Watson was that for three full days, she would not have to hear bragging about a child that wasn't even hers.

"Do you think he'll like it?" John asked, picking up his packed backpack from the floor, full of spare clothes and pyjamas, and various other 'cool things' he thought he would show Sherlock, including his most secret possession; his sketchbook.

"You picked it out, that's up to you." His mum had finally finished putting away the gift, placing the strings of the bag in her son's hand, giving him a quick peck on the forehead. He looked up at her indignantly.  
"He's really good at science, and he likes making things, I'm sure he'll be happy." John patted the bag containing the 'Advanced Science Experiments Fun Kit' they had found at Tesco last weekend.

"Alright, well I think it's time to head out, don't you think? Remember to be good for Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, and be polite, and when they say lights out, listen to them. Okay?" She asked, going over standard procedures for sleep overs. She had come a long way since only a month before when she wouldn't let him even have a play date with Sherlock. After a lengthy and reasonable argument with her husband, she accepted that they should allow John to test the waters of pseudo freedom, and if he absolutely needed to, he could always come home. They weren't going to be unsupervised, and maybe it would be a good idea to see where this kid lived, considering John talked about him non stop on a daily basis.

"I know Mum! I'll be good, I promise." John took his mother's hand, shaking it slightly, before wrapping his small arms around her waist, hugging her briefly.  
"He's waiting now, can we go?"

* * *

They pulled into the enormous driveway, three cars length in width, around the fountain in the centre of the paved round-about, up to the front door of the large manor. John's mum stared at the house in disbelief. A child in the public education system, friends with her son, lived in a home the size of a small castle.

As she turned off the ignition at the doorsteps, the large oak door swung open, a small, skinny boy with dark dishevelled curls waving in his face, rushed out, arms extended towards the car. Before she knew it, John had hopped out of the back seat, running into the arms of his friend, twin screams of the other's name coming from each boy's mouths in excitement. Not only was this John's first sleep over, this was Sherlock's first time having a friend over. Mycroft always had friends over, but Sherlock had never had any friends to invite over.

"John! Remember your bag. Also what I told you about manners and not making a mess for his parents." John's mum departed the car, wanting to introduce herself to Sherlock's parents before leaving. It seemed like the responsible parental thing to do.  
"Sherlock, are your parents home?" She asked, as John raced back to the car to get his bag, and Sherlock's birthday present. Sherlock looked at her, his expression unreadable, she wanted to say it was surprise, but she couldn't tell.

"Yes, well, Mum is." Sherlock waited until John had caught up before leading them into the house. The foyer was exquisite, the walls white, polished stone and ornate designs engraved into the sidings. It was definitely one of the most expensive homes in the area, being outside of the city where the homes were small, most people just lived in flats above shops, or even in the more suburban areas where the streets were lined with town homes, narrow, each building was wide but the individual homes were narrow and tall.

"Mum? John's mother wants to talk to you!" Sherlock yelled out, his small voice echoing off the walls in the vast empty space. Two staircases lifted from the floor on either side, joining in the middle to create a horizontal hallway dotted with various doors down their length. After several seconds, a tall woman with cropped chestnut hair came walking down the hallway, on her body was a tight fitting white, knee length dress hugging her small hips, accentuating her large bosom and small waist. Between her collarbone sat a large silver pendant, on a chain the width of a string. Her hair was short and choppy, split in various spikes, creating a modern, punk rock look that made her cheekbones stand out more than they already did.

"Hello, oh, you're the mother of the infamous John Watson? Oh yes, I've heard all about your son! Hello darling, I'm Barbara Holmes." Sherlock's mother had a posh Kensington accent that matched her look. She looked like a very high maintenance woman. John's mother extended her hand politely, noticing how her plain, cut nails looked flush against the long, French manicured nails on the slender fingers she shook.  
"I'm Tammy, Tammy Watson, hello to you too. So, you don't mind that John stays over?" She asked, feeling self conscious in the presence of such a fashionable woman.

"Oh not at all! I love it when my boys bring friends over, I've been wondering actually if John was Sherlock's imaginary friend or not, this is the first time in three years that we've seen him." Barbara laughed in an airy fashion that reminded John's mum of old English films about garden parties and high tea.  
"I, well, yes, when John said Sherlock invited him over it was quite a surprise." Tammy stammered slightly, tripping vocally over her words, she didn't know how to talk to such high class people, although Sherlock seemed to be well taught, as he and John had already taken off inside of one of the many rooms in the house, she could hear their laughter through the doors.

"Oh darling, it's fine, all fine! I'm happy to finally meet you! Don't worry about a thing, John will be well looked after. Have a wonderful, relaxing weekend dearie! What time are you coming to pick him up on Sunday?"  
Tammy wondered, if only briefly, if Barbara was already intoxicated.  
"What time works for you?" She asked, not wanting to make a time too late, nor to early.  
"We can feed him dinner if you want, come around say, about seven?" Barbara smiled, noting to herself how socially shy John's mother was. It wasn't apparent in her son, as John had immediately run off with Sherlock into his bedroom, not even a second glance at his own mother.

"All right, sounds good to me." Tammy shook Barbara's hand once more, before saying goodbye to the other woman and leaving the fancy house to return to her own small home in the London suburbs. Before she had left, she had exchanged phone numbers with Barbara, but she felt inferior next to the thin woman who radiated confidence and an outgoing attitude. Barbara had noticed her shyness, determined to break her out of that shell, especially if John and Sherlock were set on being best friends, that would involve many more slumber parties in the future.

* * *

"Sherlock, how many other kids are coming to your party?" John asked, pushing the blocks of Lego together until they clocked into place. He didn't know what exactly he was building, it was a cross between a rectangle car, a tank and an ostrich. Sherlock, on the other hand, and building a home from the bottom up, making the walls of each room precise and split evenly.

"None, only you." He shrugged, piecing some flat pieces together to build a small landing on the stairs. John looked up from his project at this. He raised an eyebrow, looking at his friend curiously.  
"Really? John wasn't so surprised actually, since he knew he was Sherlock's only friend, but it seemed odd to him that he wouldn't even bother trying to invite other kids, since they weren't exactly social pariahs, just the kids other mother's pointed at and whispered to their own child to stay away from.

"It's okay, I don't like the other kids." Sherlock was still occupied with his house, he hadn't really been paying attention to how John had stopped building to study him. John's eyes glanced over him, taking in and trying to process the fact that no one had wanted to be his friend. John couldn't decide on how to formulate a response when Sherlock bolted upright, eyes wide and alert.  
"Mycroft came back from Henry's house. John, come, let's see if he'll let us play with the dinosaurs in his room." Sherlock padded over to the door, waiting until John had gotten up, abandoning their projects on the floor, to trample downstairs to greet Sherlock's older brother. The younger brother gasped when he saw that Mycroft had brought his friend home with him, as this was one of Sherlock's favourite.

"Henry!" He shrieked, getting excited, as he clung to the teenager's knees with his small hands.  
"Hey kiddo! How are you?" The boy had fiery red hair that lay poker straight on his head but formed small flipping motions at the tips. He bent down the ruffle Sherlock's messy hair when he noticed the blonde boy standing awkwardly off to the side, not knowing whether to say hello, or to just stand there.  
"Hey, you brought home a friend! Good for you, little buddy!" Henry's kind eyes squinted as he smiled at John. John was never good at talking to older kids, he felt as if they always judged him for his age and couldn't look past it. Mycroft looked like those type of kids that sneered whenever he walked by, Henry on the other hand, was open and happy and looked like he wanted to hear what they had to say.

"His name is John Watson, and he's my best friend!" Sherlock beamed, letting go of Henry's legs, presenting John like he was a prize on a game show. John shuffled from one foot to the other, a small line dance as Henry, over double his own height, stood in front of him, grinning like a fool.  
"Hello John, I'm Henry, friend o' Mycroft's. Nice to meet you." Henry ruffled John's short military style haircut before turning around to join Mycroft in the den. Sherlock wandered in after them, beckoning for John to follow him into the large room. When they entered, they heard Henry's thick Irish accent flood the spaces they didn't occupy.

"So when are the girl's getting here?" They heard Henry ask, Sherlock sat down on the plush sofa next to them, listening intently. They never took notice, since a couple seven year old kids weren't going to harm anything. Mycroft glared, however, trying to shoo his baby brother and his friend away, since they had intruded in their private conversation. Their mother wasn't around either, having taking solace in one of the many vast rooms that littered the homestead.  
"Kate and Grace said they'd be here at four, and Amy was coming shortly after them. It's nearly four now, we got home just in time, are we going to get the bottle?" Mycroft asked, his eyes piercing, even though he wasn't focused on any specific thing, they were like daggers in the air.

"I don't know if they'll want to play with us." The young Irish boy shrugged, sounding sceptical, like any teenage boy, he wanted to play Spin the Bottle with three gorgeous girls as much as the next kid, but he wasn't sure if the girls would want to play as much as he did. He tried, however, to sound impartial and suave, but only managing to sound scared. Mycroft let out a harsh laugh, shaking him head at his friend.  
"Of course they will! Now, let's get ready, we can play in my room so my mother won't see."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, five teenagers were lounging casually in Mycroft's large bedroom. Two slender girls with the same tone golden yellow hair that cascaded down their shoulders sat on his bed, their feet propped up on pillows, their knees hugged to their chest to act as a reading stand for the science textbooks they had brought over from school. They had gone to the all girls Catholic Revival School that took nearly an hour to get to by car, even longer when they had to use the metro. Their names were Kate and Grace, similar in body type and height, in physical attributes and personality. Unrelated biologically, they were twins in the flesh, and Mycroft had a growing crush on them.

The other female, Amy, was on the floor, her feet pressed against the wall, as she was positioned slightly upside down, her short black hair fanned out around her shoulders. Her olive skin complimented by the dark tones in the carpet. She was not a stranger to the Holmes household, her close friendship with Mycroft making her a common visitor, knowing her way around the house like she lived there. Sherlock knew her well too, she often helped him with his maths homework, he was above his grade level in mathematics, so he was given stuff for the next grade up, tutored by the friendly Asian girl. She wasn't as skinny as Kate and Grace were, nor was she as fashionable, but she was, in an exotic way, more beautiful than they were. Sherlock admired her foreign tongue, although she had been born and raised in England, she spoke Japanese fluently, and the combination of the strange phonic sounds and familiar accent was enticing to Sherlock, which is why, two summers ago, he had requested that she taught him her language. And she had. The two often spoke Japanese when they were around Mycroft. It drove the older Holmes boy into paroxysms of annoyance.

Today, however, Sherlock was annoyed. He had convinced John to become his accomplice, as they crept up to the back balcony, climbing on top of flower bins and metal railings, precariously tipped on the back of wooden deck chairs to get up to the flat roof of the house, trying to sneak their way into Mycroft's room without being detected. John had been sceptical, no, he still was full of doubt that this idea would even work. He didn't like doing things without permission, and this was the ultimate way to disobey the rules was by sneaking in. Sherlock, using his power as John's friend to manipulate him into coming, had already reached the top of the house, and was quickly but furiously making motions to encourage John to climb faster. They needed to reach the other side of the house and climb onto the narrow ledge outside of Mycroft's room, there they would wait until he left, and climb in to join the others who didn't mind them being there.

Inside the room, Mycroft was telling Amy about how to mix silver azide and Urea nitrate, two explosive chemicals, without setting either of them off to create an unfortunate and destructive ending. Kate and Grace were telling Henry about how someone in their yearbook class had subliminally placed a picture of a phallic image inside of every single student portfolio image, which meant now over two thousand images had to be re-edited and submitted, and it was due by the end of next week. Unfortunately, the culprit was skilled in the art of photoshop, making it difficult to remove the inappropriate symbols without causing damage to the original image. When Henry had suggested just taking the photos from the file and placing them over the pages, they informed him that whomever it was that did it, had done it to the originals too. Someone was either a huge shit disturber, or really hated the yearbook leader.

Henry, who sat facing the large window that was behind Mycroft's bed, had seen the top of Sherlock's unruly mop of hair creep past the edge, knowing that this meant the smaller Holmes wanted into the bedroom, the red haired boy tapped Mycroft on the shoulder.  
"Hey man, you got anything to drink?" He asked nonchalantly, smiling when all three of the girls had nodded their agreement in unison. With a groan, Mycroft stood up, being a good host, grumbling as he left the room to the kitchen to find suitable beverages for his insatiable friends.  
The moment he heard the door shut behind him, Mycroft jumped up, striding purposefully to the window, undoing the latch and throwing the glass pane wide open to allow the small boy to crawl through without any trouble.

"Hey, I was waiting to see how long you'd take to get out there!" Henry chuckled, assisting Sherlock by grabbing his shirt and hoisting him into the room. Amy didn't look twice, as she knew the routine well by this point, but Kate and Grace did a double take when they figured out that a child had been lurking just outside of the bedroom window.  
"Where's your little friend?" Henry asked, raising an eyebrow, he knew there were two boys there, but he couldn't see the blonde one outside of the window. Sherlock shrugged, jumping off the bed and crossing his legs on the floor beside the large rectangular bookshelf he admired so much.

"He's out there somewhere, he's too scared to walk onto the ledge, so he might still be on the roof." The comment made Henry both chuckle in concern and widen his eyes in disbelief. Did Sherlock really just leave a fellow child, frightened and shaking on the roof without a second thought? He wondered if he hadn't asked, if Sherlock would have told them.  
Wanting to be responsible, Henry excused himself between the two blonde girls, sliding his torso out of the window, looking up onto the roof. Sure as Sherlock had said, John was trembling, nervous and scared, crouching on the roof. His eyes were wet, obviously feeling too frightened to climb down after his best friend. Henry called out to him, extending his arms out to support the boy.

John was still reluctant to crawl over the safety edge of the roof, but he figured that if Sherlock had done it by himself, he could do it with the assistance.  
Once the blonde boy was safely inside of the confines of the room, Sherlock waved him over. John felt a small spark of anger.  
"Why didn't you help me down?" He asked, hissing, his voice wavering slightly. Amy rolled over onto her stomach, smiling, addicted to the childish drama. Kate and Grace decided it was best to ignore it and went back to reading their textbooks, and Henry stood on the sidelines, prepared to play referee in case it turned into a physical fight.

"I came in to get help, why else do you think Henry knew you were still out there?" Sherlock had remained calm, his disposition unwavering. He was far more mature than most children his age. This seemed to satisfy John, as his face lifted, and he stopped advancing towards his friend with intent of anger and causing pain. Henry let out a sigh of relief, Amy let out a moan of disappointment, Kate and Grace flipped the page in their textbook.

* * *

"Hey guys, I found a case of soda in the fridge, and-...what are they doing in here?" Mycroft opened the door with one hand, noticing Sherlock and John's presence immediately. His mood dropped, he knew his friends enjoyed having Sherlock around, he was intelligent, mature, well cultured, and got along well with everyone, what wasn't to like? Kate was the first to acknowledge Mycroft's return, waving at him. The older Holmes brother gingerly set the case down by the foot of the bed, lifting from the same hand, an empty glass beer bottle that he had found in the backyard recycling.

"What's the bottle for?" Kate asked, having a suspicion, but not wanting to act on assumptions. At this, Henry looked up, he had been talking to John, trying to get him out of his shell, talking about his model aeroplanes and drawing utensils. That seemed to bring the boy forward, making comfortable conversation. Henry himself wasn't too interested in aeroplanes, but he knew enough to not discourage a kid who has nothing else to say to him. The red haired teenager grinned, leaning forward to take the bottle from Mycroft's hand.

"Who wants to play Spin the Bottle?" He asked loudly, ceasing the conversation that Sherlock and Amy had been having in Japanese, and making Grace drop the book in her lap. Except for the younger kids, they had all played this Primary school game before, but then again, they had all been to birthday parties and sleep overs before too. Sherlock, always the more curious one, was the first to speak out.  
"What's Spin the Bottle?" He asked, thinking how primitive of a game it would be to take a glass bottle and, well, spin it.

"Well, we all sit in a circle, someone spins the bottle and whoever it points to, they kiss. Simple as that." Henry explained, Mycroft had been ostracised, it seemed, as everyone else had started to gather into a loose circle, all secretly excited to be playing the old game again. Sherlock still remained confused, asking himself why everyone thought that was a good idea, it didn't seem like that much fun to him. John, on the other hand, liked the idea of getting a chance to kiss older girls.  
"Come join the circle, Sherlock, it's okay, it's not anything bad, just a kiss." Amy giggled, noticing the small boy's shyness. He was usually very outspoken and talkative, but all this talk of kissing had made him delve deep into his own private thoughts.

"All right, Mycroft, since this was your idea, you go first." Henry passed Mycroft the bottle, everyone had grown silent as they watched Mycroft turn the neck of the bottle expertly in his hand, as everyone leaned in forward to see who it would stop at.  
After what seemed like hours, the bottle finally stopped spinning, and it was pointing to Grace, who blushed deeply as everyone except Sherlock and John chorused in a loud 'oooh' noise. Mycroft lowered his eyes and pressed a chaste kiss to the blonde's cheek, avoiding her lips entirely. Henry applauded once he did it, and Amy chuckled to herself. Now it was Grace's turn to spin the bottle.

Several rounds later, and neither John nor Sherlock had been picked yet. Now it was once again Grace's turn to spin, and it landed on Sherlock. Everyone cheered as the older girl smoothed back the child's hair, pecking him gently on the forehead. John felt an unsettling in his stomach, he didn't like the way that Grace did that to him, it didn't seem right. He kept his mouth shut, however, as Henry passed Sherlock the bottle, saying the words 'good job, little player' creating a low sound of snickering from the peanut gallery.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, his small hand unable to wrap all the way around the base of the bottle, and it spun, and spun and spun until finally it started to slow down, and it stopped, pointing directly at none other except his best friend himself.  
Henry and Amy were to first to hoop and holler at this, Mycroft put his palm against his forehead, he knew it would happen. The two blondes were biting their lips to keep from laughing. So far, Henry and Mycroft had avoided getting each other, and the females didn't care enough, but this, two small boys, the youngest in the room, were being paired up by an empty beer bottle.

Pursing his lips together, Sherlock leapt forward, his arms around John's neck, pulling him close, kissing him smack on the lips.

Everyone in the room collectively let their jaws drop, they hadn't expected such enthusiasm from him. It didn't extend to anything further, just a big wet kiss on the lips, and it was over.

Though it was not a game for points, it was silently unanimously agreed that Sherlock had won the game of 'Spin the Bottle'.

* * *

It goes without saying, nearly every weekend for the rest of the year, John had spent it sleeping over at Sherlock's house, secretly wondering if they would ever get to play Spin the Bottle again.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the long introduction, I'm really passionate about the inspiration for this story. It won't happen again. EVERYTHING in this story is based on 100% true things that happened to my friend James and I in school. We met this exact same way, and all the stories are things that have happened to us. Some slightly exaggerated to sound a bit more dramatic, but the basic story is the same. The roles sometimes switch to fit the character better, but in this one, John is taking the role of myself and Sherlock is based on James, all though it might switch in other chapters just to suit the rules.


End file.
